“What is that?” Falcon asked, pointing.
“You can see?” Mitch Bouyer asked.
“Yes.”
“Ponies,” Bouyer replied. “Many, many ponies. Maybe twenty thousand ponies.”
It took about an hour for Varnum to go back for Custer, and when they returned, Reno, Benteen, and Cooke had come along as well. The little group rode to the top of the ridge, where Falcon, Bloody Knife, Bouyer, and Reynolds were waiting.
“Now, what do you see?” Custer asked.
“Many ponies,” Bouyer said. “Big village, there.” He pointed. “It is the biggest village I have ever seen.”
Custer pulled a pair of field glasses from his saddle pouch, then looked in the direction Bouyer pointed. He looked through the glasses for a long moment, then lowered them.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
“They are there.”
“How many?” Custer asked.
“We will find enough Sioux to keep us fighting two or three days.”
Custer smiled. “Oh, I guess we’ll get through them in one day.” He lifted the binoculars and looked again. “You are sure they are there?”
Bloody Knife turned his hand over and wiggled his fingers. “From here, the ponies look like worms, crawling in the grass.”
“Gen’rul, I think you ought to know that we’ve also seen at least three war parties returnin’ to the camp,” Charley Reynolds said. Charley Reynolds was carrying his arm in a sling.
“What’s wrong with your arm?”
“I got a cut in my ring finger, and it’s up and festered on me,” Reynolds said.
“Did you do anything for it?”
“I put me a poultice of a strip of bacon and some axle grease on it,” Reynolds replied. “That ain’t helped none, and I have to tell you it’s hurtin’ somethin’ fierce.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Custer said.
“Gen’rul, I think you got to figure that the Injuns has done seen us by now.”
“Yes, I’m afraid you might be right,” Custer said. “All right, let’s return to the camp. We don’t have a minute to lose.”
When they returned to the column, Tom Custer was waiting for them, and he asked to speak with Custer for a moment. Falcon watched the two brothers engage in an animated discussion, but they were too far away for him to be able to hear what they were saying. When he saw Dorman a moment or two later, the black scout filled him in.
“One of the pack mules lost a case of hard bread during the night march up here,” Dorman said. “Keogh sent a sergeant and some men back to retrieve it, and they seen a bunch o’ Sioux openin’ the box. They shot at each other a couple times. Then the Sioux run off.”
Once again, Custer called a meeting of all his officers. As usual, his orderly had stuck his command pennant in the ground to mark the place as headquarters, but a freshening southerly breeze caught the banner, causing it to flap briskly, then blow down. As Falcon was nearest the flag, he picked it up and stuck into the ground again, this time using a bit of sagebrush to help support it.
Because of the heat of the day, Custer had taken off his buckskin jacket, and was now wearing a dark blue army shirt, buckskin pants tucked into his boots, and a gray, broad-brimmed hat. There was no insignia of rank on his shirt, but no rank was needed to establish his position of command.
“Gentlemen,” he began. “It is beginning to appear as if we have been discovered and my biggest fear is that the Indian camp will break up, scattering in all directions. So, from this moment forward, we will have no advance elements. Instead, we will advance in force, find the village, and strike as soon as possible.”
“We advanced to the head of what is now called Reno Creek,” Falcon said as he continued telling his story to Zane Grey, Libbie, and his great-granddaughter. “There, Custer formed the regiment into battalions. Major Reno was given command of one of the battalions, Captain Benteen was given command of another, and Custer took command of the largest single battalion. Captain McDougal and his company guarded the pack train and brought up the rear.”
“Who did you go with?” Zane Grey asked.
“Well, I had been with Dorman for most of the time and when they divided up, Dorman was with Reno, so that’s where I went as well.”
“Falcon, do you recall about what time of day that was?” Libbie asked.
“It was about nine o’clock in the morning,” Falcon answered.
“The reason I asked is, you may recall that June twenty-fifth was a Sunday, and several of the wives of the post had come to my house for a Sunday prayer service.
“Our little group of saddened women, borne down with one common weight of anxiety, sought solace in gathering together in our house. We tried to find some slight surcease from trouble in the old hymns: some of them dating back to our childhood days when our mothers rocked us to sleep to their soothing strains. I remember the
